


i didn't know how to title it, so the name stays unknown

by alisexxv



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Young Veins
Genre: 2017 ryden, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy Ending, Kinky boots, M/M, Oh My God, POV Ryan Ross, Romantic Fluff, Ryden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 20:06:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12395262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisexxv/pseuds/alisexxv
Summary: Brendon gets an anxiety attack and thinks he's not good enough, but Ryan comforts him and makes him feel loved.That's pretty much it.





	i didn't know how to title it, so the name stays unknown

**A/N:  **Hey everyone! I'm back and fighting my writer's block! I have this little piece for ya because everyone needs a bit of fluff sometimes :D I started writing this thing back in July but I abandoned it after some time, not knowing what to do with it —  _and_ somehow it happened to help me with my writer's block now! Well, things happen. But anyway, since I've written like 3/4 of this work today, it's not betaed. So if you see any mistakes, let me know! _Comments are appreciated, as always! <3_

 

 

 

 

 

It's almost eleven pm and I'm lying on the bed in Brendon's New York apartment, tired after a five-hour flight.

He's not supposed to be home for at least thirty minutes because it takes a longer amount of time to finish up the stage door signing and ride here all the way from Hirschfeld Theatre — but it's the ruffling of the door lock that wakes me.

His bed is warm and cozy, white cashmere sheets giving an amazing fit, cocooning the body tightly but not taking away the needed air.

When I first got inside, finding his spare key under the doormat, just like he said, I was really surprised, but in a good way — the place is open and spatial, big windows in the living room are letting the light illuminate the entire room and not so small kitchenette, beautifully.

The creamy white couch and two matching armchairs stand facing the wall and a fireplace that I left lit because I couldn't work the automatic heating — Brendon will teach me later.

It hasn't been too long since I'd arrived, a little over one hour, and all I did before heading straight to bed was making myself a cup of tea.  
Well, if you know me, that's probably strange to you — Ryan Ross drinking something else than coffee? But yes, a few months ago, when I and Brendon went to England, he found this amazing kind of tea, bought it in some herbal shop down the road, to be exact and let me taste it and — well. We both loved it equally, so we brought back dozens of boxes and now we're drinking it — it's almost an addiction of ours.

I drink the cup quickly, eat something — in the process finding out that his fridge isn't blinding with its emptiness, in fact, is fuller than the one we have back home — and when I feel the tiredness taking the best of me, I decide to head straight to the bedroom.

It's upstairs, as I figure, after seeing the ceiling hung high above my head and a railing parting the second floor — that's apparently the mezzanine — from the hole beneath, preventing people from falling down over the sharp edge.

I take the dark steps — and there's ten of them — admiring their design on the way up; each step is floating, stuck only to the wall, but it's a firm hold, I can tell, so I don't worry about them breaking and falling down, taking me alongside.

The bedroom — or just simply the second floor, because there's nothing else there — is not much: big twin bed pressed to the railing closely, leaving no space between the two, then, two identical cabinets standing on both sides of it and a massive painting — Troup, if I'm being right and my art recognizing skills haven't died despite me not being to any exhibition in the longest time — hanging on the wall.

It's simple and I like it — why stuff the apartment with things no one really needs, the furniture, the excess of decorations and shit when you can keep it clean and minimalistic. It's simplicity that life's about.

I fall onto the bed freely and without taking my clothes off, roll under the sheets, coating myself with their warmth.  
And before I can realize, I'm already drifting off, soon to be asleep — but it doesn't last long.

The sound of the door lock opening wakes me, less than thirty minutes later, but I don't get up, keeping myself from having to leave the comfortable warmth.

I hear the steps echoing downstairs, the sound muffled, like the person who's walking is trying to do it as quiet as possible.  
I perch my ears and move up to rest on my elbows as if it would allow me to hear better — the sounds stop for a moment before the drawer gets opened and the keys click together while falling onto the hard surface.

My brows furrow and I listen closer.

The drawer closing.

Soft, shoeless steps climbing up the stairs.

I make myself sit straighter and observe as Brendon's tiny figure appears at the feet of our bed. It's dark but I can see his outline perfectly — slumped shoulders, chest heaving and fingers trembling, when he reaches down to take his jeans off.  
They slide off easily and he moves up the bed, now only in his boxers, not paying any attention to me.

We were waiting for this moment for weeks now and he doesn't even notice me.

My frown gets deeper.

"Hey," I say, putting a hand on his shoulder; steady and comforting.  
He flinches in surprise and jumps away, eyes wide and glistening in the dark; but the spark — it's not playful and careless as usual — it's full of sadness, fear.

I move up immediately. "Bren?" I ask, searching. He ducks his head, his fingers working on the hem of the sheet, lifting it and pulling all over his body, hiding from the room, house, world, me.

"I'm fine," he answers the unspoken question, his voice strained, tired. It's probably the performance and the signings and everything but—

"Brendon—"

"I'm _fine_."

Only that he's not.

I bite on my lip hard, feeling the sharp taste of iron.

He wraps himself in the sheet tighter and turns his back to me, curling up into a small ball.

He's so fragile like that. So delicate and fragile and I'm afraid he's going to break any second.  
But I take his silent request to heart nonetheless, resisting the urge to wrap my arms around him and turn away instead, occupying my own side.

It's quiet and peaceful and there's no sound in the air apart from his ragged breathing.

I sigh deeply. That's definitely not the way I was expecting for us to reunite after almost three months of separation.  
I promised I would wait up for him and then we'd say hi properly — probably fucking the whole night and a half of the next day too; but instead, that's what I get.

That's what I get — him being distant and not wanting to talk about it. And to make things even more depressing, I'm totally pussy whipped, not being able to make him explain.  
He's throwing a fucking tantrum and all I can do is watch and just nod my head obediently and—

Wait.

I pause to make sure my senses are working correctly at this point, but then the body behind my back convulses and I sit up momentarily. My fingers reach for the lamp switch and I turn it on, the yellow light spreading over the bed.

Now I can see him properly — pale face, eyes shut tight, the lids not letting any light inside. His fists are clenched on the delicate material, crumbling it, knuckles white as snow. The mental image of the hurried, heavy breathing is now very alive, lying next to me.

I look at him, eyes wide.  
I don't know what to do because I've never seen him like that. I know about it, I know how he gets sometimes, he's told me, but I've never seen him like that. And I cannot just leave him be, let it pass on its own, just looking at it. I can't. I can't and I know it.

I stare at him for a mere moment, just like that; eyes wide, mouth half open, heart running a marathon in my rib cage.  
I'm fucking scared, God, because Brendon, my Brendon is—  
And I don't have a fucking clue how to help.

But then — then his body shakes once more and he lets a small whimper out, and it's like a fucking signal for me to kick into motion immediately.

"Bren— Bren, you're shaking," I state and he only shakes his head frantically.

"I'm fine."

It's the third time he's said it. It's the third time and they say three time's a charm, so I lean over and put my hand on his heart, beneath the clenched fists, checking. It's beating rapidly like it's trying to escape, run, just to be anywhere but in his body.

It's not good. It's bad, it's fucking bad.

"Bren, your heart..." I inhale deeply, only then realizing how much I needed it. "Brendon, it's the anxiety, isn't it?"

He keeps shaking his head frantically, his whole body shaking from time to time and it's just now that I realize he's been trying to keep it inside, trying not to show that something's wrong, hide it from me.

And fuck me, if I'm not feeling completely guilty right now — because how bad of a boyfriend do I have to be, to make him feel like he needs to hide things like that from me?

I exhale shakily and start drawing comforting circles on his back. He doesn't want it and I know it, but I still do. "Baby, come here, please." And when he doesn't move, only shakes some more, "Trust me."

His muscles seem to relax a little after that and he turns to me shyly and still avoiding the eye contact, tugs into my side, hiding his face in my chest. I don't hesitate before putting my arms around him tightly, bringing him closer to me, trapping in my embrace possessively, because baby, I've got you. I've got you, baby.

It's only then that he lets the tears run down his cheeks and fall all the way down to my shirt, the damp material clinging to my skin after a short while.  
He's sobbing now, almost not holding back at all, and I let my fingers thread through his hair affectionately, massaging his scalp with every movement.

We lie like that for a while — Brendon shivering and sniffling from time to time, and me, keeping him close, making sure he knows that he's not alone, that with me, he's safe.  
Luckily, he doesn't try to escape my embrace anymore, pushing his face harder into my chest, as if trying to get inside.

I don't know how much time passes when he decides to move again, his face reappearing suddenly.

"It's funny, you know?" He says laughing through his nose, his eyes traveling to some vague point on the nearest wall. When I don't say anything, he continues, "How you're still putting up with this. With me."

"Come again?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, Ryan." He scoffs, the bitter tone of his voice prominent. "We're waiting to see each other for months, and when the moment finally comes, I just have to destroy it and make it all about me."

"Brendon..."

"No, let me finish." Brendon sits up, moving away from me, pushing his body to the other half of our bed, and pulling his knees up, to rest his chin on top of them. "I'm throwing a fucking tantrum, crying and not being able to say why. Fuck, not even knowing _myself_ , why."

"Bren, that's just who you are—"

"Yeah, a burden." He cuts me off, turning away quickly, hiding his face in the nest formed by his knees, and taking a deep breath.

I blink twice and stare at him in awe, too dumbstruck to make a move. How is it possible that I've never noticed how he really feels? Has he ever given me any sign? Any clue, that in reality, he thinks he's not enough for me? That behind all those smiles he bestows me with is someone so, so broken. How could I be so blind not to see that?

"Bren?" I say, moving from my position on the bed, crawling closer to him, but he doesn't speak. "Brendon." No answer. "Brendon, look at me," and when he only shakes his head a little, I bring my hand to his face hesitantly and put it under his chin to make our eyes meet. This time he obeys. "Listen to me, okay? Do not ever say these things again," I start before swallowing hard. "You are everything to me, alright? Everything. I think of you before going to sleep, and you're the first thing on my mind when I wake up." I take his hands into mine and squeeze hard, not letting go after, my grip steady and protective. "You are the most beautiful thing in this fucking universe, and I cannot imagine my future without you being by my side."

"But—"

"No, no buts," I say, searching his eyes with mine. "Baby, I love you. I love you, and that's most definitely not because you're perfect." I laugh tenderly, caressing his cheek a little. "And okay, maybe you're totally childish, immature, and unbelievably demanding, and sometimes you drive me crazy by it," I smile, "But that's exactly what made me fall for you in the first place." Brendon's cheeks tint pink, and he ducks his head, a tiny smile breaking through. "I'm not going to get scared away, Brendon, whatever it is," I continue, sure of myself. If I haven't thought about stating my feelings earlier, now it's time to make up for the lost time. "I know about your anxiety, I do, and it doesn't bother me. It's who you are. I will do all the needed research, and we'll get through it together, okay?"

I bring both my hands to the sides of his face and kiss him slowly, tenderly. It doesn't take long for him to kiss back, his hand traveling all the way to my neck; he smiles into it, small, but it's there.  
We enjoy the kiss being as it is — chaste and tender — none of us feel like taking it further.

Finally, Brendon moves away, then laughs silently, with disbelief, "Wow, maybe it's you who has some problems? You're still here when you could be with someone much better."

"Who, God?" I raise my eyebrow questioningly, "I doubt he swings that way." I shrug. "Anyway, even if he would, I'd still choose you." A big smile takes over my face. "You lured me into making that decision, just so you know."

"Ryan Ross, did you just call me Satan?" Brendon laughs, and it's probably the first real one, today. I smile some more.

"Satan is nothing, compared to you." I push his shoulder playfully. He sticks his tongue out and slaps me back. Then, when I don't start a fight, grinning at his victory. "Your seduction skills are much better."

"Oh? How would you know that?" The tension in Brendon's shoulders is slowly disappearing, and his eyes are more alive now, the usual spark coming back. I pull him in, and he drapes his body over mine, then climbing higher to sit on my lap comfortably.  
My hands involuntarily wander to his hips, and I steady them there, looking up to catch Brendon's eyes. God, if words could express how much I love him.

"It's a secret," I smirk. "But you should believe me nonetheless." My thumbs hook under the waistband of his boxers, but I don't pull on them, slowly playing with the elastic. "Or, maybe not. That way you'd have to prove them to me." I waggle my eyebrows suggestively, and Brendon throws his head back, laughing. He puts his palms flat on my chest to keep himself from falling over onto his back and looks down at me, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You had this all planned out, hadn't you?" He drags his index finger down my chest, slowly, teasing, until he gets to the edge of my pants and ends his journey there. He leans down, stopping only mere inches from my face, his hot breath hitting my face in even puffs. "You just wanted to get me into bed and take advantage of me." I smile devilishly and close the distance parting us, pressing my lips to Brendon's.

The kiss is harder now, more demanding and heated than earlier, but before I can enjoy it to the fullest, Brendon's pulling away, not letting my tongue go past the seam of his lips. He sits up straighter and looks away, lower lip trapped between his teeth.

"Hey, is everything fine?" I ask, my hand grazing his arm up and down, making goosebumps rise on his skin.

"Um..." Brendon keeps his eyes on something very interesting behind my head, his voice uncertain. "Do you mind if we just. You know." He looks at me vaguely, shrugging. "Do you mind if we just go to bed? Sleep. I mean, to sleep. Not to do... this." His hand points at the space between our crotches quickly and he blushes, ducking his head.

"Fuck, of course." I rush to say, taking my hand away, and trying to get out from under him. "Whatever you wish, baby."

Brendon smiles at me softly, with his whole face, and lies down, putting his head on my chest and throwing one leg across my body, hugging me close. I smile to myself, knowing that it's the way of him thanking me — with his whole body, with affection and love. It's his way of telling me that he's grateful for me being there for him.  
I burrow my face in his hair, kissing the top of his head, and smiling, bringing one of my hands to his back and drawing various patterns on the skin there. "Goodnight, Bren," I say softly.

"Ryan?"

"Hmm?"

"Me too, you know?" I look down at him, our eyes meeting. My brows furrow in confusion, as I wait for Brendon to continue. "Love you." He says, a goofy grin stretching his sleepy face. "I love you, too."

 

 


End file.
